Shahzoda Samarghandi (Nazarova, 1975) was born in Samarkand, Uzbekistan (Soviet Union) is a young Tajik poet, writer and journalist. She is one the founders of the first Tajik TV program “Chashme Del” (1998) in Samarkand after the collapse of Soviet Union. Nazarova published two Persian novels: “Syndrome Stockholm” by “Khavaran” in Paris, 2011 (Second edition was published in 2012 by H&S Media) and “Motherland” (Zamine Madaran) London, in 2013 by “H&S Media”. Motherland has been translated into Cyrillic and Arabic scripts.
Poetry “Dialogue with West”
Here I am, limited and wrapped
by my own hair.
Skillfully trained to be invisible
and necessary as air.
Here I am, master of painfully losing art.
Willingly posing my chest to your daily dart.
Here I am, forty years young,
A woman, seven steps beyond.
Too shy to shine and burning brine
I have learned to wear only in my eye the diamond.
Mines, under my fit.
Rockets, on top of my roof… Ooofff …
I am sorry, am I talking too much
The staff you dont want to hear as such?
Dicta, dictor, dictatorship
is a still high iron wall between our friendship
Should I wait till it also collapses
Or we should keep massaging overlaps…
…But I promise, one day
If North wind will not delay
I hope to dare to say,
That only word I was hiding
Behind my tongue
Since I was utterly young.
and I will end growing in,
and I will start growing wild.
Here I am, too tamed,
And times are up to shout
That only word
I was hiding behind my tongue
Since I was simply strong.
Here I am, storm in a cattle
Coffee in a cup each morning for you.
Not so hot, not so cold
As golden green tea
Each evening for you.
Here I am, in the frame
Of broken tranquility
of yours eternally guilty.
21 sept 2015
dried rivers, drained Lake.
Deep scratches of cotton fields
has wounded your skin
Ultimate Sun goes down
I sink into
illusion of Peace in Town
A nation is suffering
Optimism is my
receipt to obtain
From 24 hour service local pharmacy
Pessimism my point A
Through Magical realism
I need to crowl
To my desired point B
To My goal
The optimist to be.
My DNA is bond however
to sadly neglected naturalism
You anxiously sweat
from Whatever .. ism.
Give me a break
Give me a right to refuse
Give me a slightest choice decide
I am not ordinary girl with fuss.
I still remember how devoted I have kissed
The Deep red color flag
With heavily loaded Kalashnikov in my feast
Manipulated ridiculous organism.
She was but she has no name
Crying no longer helps
Shouting will do a bit,
but have you got a strength?
-Could you, please, stop insisting
My Dear Friend?
I told you: I can’t….
and any way….
What is the use of eating well
When you’re saying to your unborn
You are genius’ I would say
sitting on his lap every single day.
You are father, breadwinner, driver
communist, believer and fighter
against already dead nazist,
against imaginary alien enemies.
You are strong and never wrong,
serious, ambitious and wiser.
‘He is a true genius, I would say
thinking of him whole night and day.
‘You have it all in your genies
Told me my father one day
The day I have never betray.
My girl,- he said, you are on the contrary
my hope, my genies’, but I had doubt
and I looked down and said imprimis
‘I dont have a penis’ like my brother.
But You have God’s habits, you have womb
You have for entire future room.
‘I dont want to be like mother
I dont wan to be just a Mother
My girl, you can be phenomenally better off
That your brother can’t even dream of
You can be more than a genies
You are Almighty’s phenomena
and he has given you
much more than a penis.
I am the fire, not a flower,
you have been reciting thousand centuries
Let me correct it
I am the fire, not a reason of fire,
let me correct your intentionally
over imposed desire
I am not a flower!
I am not even cause to fear
and have no relation to it not even near
it’s your seed deeped in my soil
for centuries, you still wonder why
it is blossoming in your own soul?
Yes I am the fire you have been scared
Through history of your mankind
The fire, which will end to all your
slavering ideas ending with … ism
rising of my belated Womanhood
Will pull you out of my native wood
You no longer can hide
behind green leaves and robb
my sound and spirit for good.
Humans we are
You say Speech is golden, silence is silver,
We say Silence is Gold, Speech is the killer
You promote democracy, we have to deal hard
Every day with damned procrastination and guard.
You have deadlines to reach, you have your child to teach
We for dead bodies of our children in border lines beseech
You sleep in feathery soft bed, we swing in seabeds
You protest, we get everyday guns pointed in our heads.
Humans we are, humans we are in two different parts
of the Earth, One blessed with joy, one hunted as harts
Wind is blowing, hey human on other part, stay awake, stay on shore,
My child’s dead body will be swimming on your seaside door.
(for refugees we are all)
18 oct 2015
New wave of Sacrifice
In my land everyone carries a sack of grain
On their shoulders each day and each second
They carry the heavy borden of being – hood
when it’s empty the heavier it gets, I reckon,
When nothing you have to carry to cheer your baby
Your own body weight will be the heaviest
Grave to carry on, to bury on and on and on
Come on my enemy what is that you want
Me to do, so you can balance my basic needs
To survive, not to thrive I will sell my soul
To your demonish Mental Impairment
Possess me O demon, recruit me, O my enemy,
Safe my child, stagnate me, my wested destiny.
When you are born in a cotton fields
When your nursery is Cotton field
When you are dragged from your school
To labour in Cotton field
From your operation table,
From your job let it be a nurse,
a teacher, a doctor, a PhD holder
or even a professor to labour
in Cotton field
When your wedding is postponed,
terminated to harvest your best
In Cotton field
Even you, my dear contemporary
Can be easely cotton minded